


The (mis)Adventures (in child-rearing) of the Morrow Days

by taywen



Series: Arthur in the House [2]
Category: Keys to the Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Crack, Gen, I tripped and angst came out again, Kid Fic, Some of them try, every time, it's probably a good thing that it's really hard to die in the House, some of them don't even attempt, some of them fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You might think the Morrow Days would be horrible at taking care of a baby. Well- no, actually, you'd probably be right. </p><p>The Trustees (and their Times) get used to caring for Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> These parts take place in roughly chronological order. Sunday's part immediately follows 'The (very important) Meeting of the Morrow Days (most of them anyway)'.
> 
> Pietro is the name I have given the Piper. Why? Uh, well, it kind of sounds like Piper.

It being a Sunday, Sunday finds himself cradling Arthur gingerly and standing in an elevator with Friday's Dawn when the meeting ends. Usually he takes the Improbable Stair, since the normal elevators do not extend to the Incomparable Gardens, but Friday's Dawn has agreed to temporarily lend his supplies out until the other Trustees can make or acquire their own.

"How old is he?" Sunday asks, peering down into the boy's pale blue eyes. Arthur blinks up at him, in a disinterested sort of way.

"Four months, I believe," Friday's Dawn answers; he has a strange expression on his face, and he will not look away from Sunday or Arthur - as if he expects the boy to be dropped or something.

"He is quite small," Sunday says. Surely Tom and Pietro must have been this small once too, but he cannot recall it. Then again, he was never terribly interested in the Architect and the Old One's subsequent experiments with mortal life until his brothers were old enough to communicate with some degree of intelligence.

"Yes," Friday's Dawn says fretfully. "I do not know what will happen when he is old enough to crawl. The books assure me it will happen but I cannot imagine something so small moving around on his own power."

"If billions of mortals have managed it before him in their polluted Secondary Realms, I am certain Arthur will do fine in the House," Sunday says.

"Yes, but those billions of mortals are generally surrounded by other mortals who know what to do with a baby," Friday's Dawn mutters.

Sunday chooses to ignore that. "What have you been doing with Arthur when you go about your duties?" he asks.

Friday's Dawn shrugs, the plates of his armour clinking together. "I have been leaving my lieutenants in charge of the daily patrols of the Middle House, though I have been ready to leave Arthur in some of the Gilded Youths' care if my presence is needed. For duties on the Flat, which is the terrace under my command, I have brought Arthur along with me. Not to the Mill, of course; loud noises can be very damaging to a baby's hearing, or so I've read. But I do not often have cause to visit the Mill either."

"That seems sensible," Sunday says; thankfully, the elevator comes to a halt immediately afterward, bringing the conversation to a natural end. He had quite run out of things to discuss with Friday's Dawn, as he had little interest in the running of the Middle House.

Friday's Dawn leads him through a veritable maze of vast corridors. The floors are marble, supported by columns that seem altogether more grand than the Middle House really warrants. Friezes of Denizens clad in armour similar to Friday's Dawn's battling with Nithlings cover the walls.

He supposes it is nice enough, although his tastes run more towards the natural than the artificially created.

"This is the Gilded Barracks," Friday's Dawn explains. "In Aurianburg, on the Flat."

"I knew that," Sunday lies stiffly.

Friday's Dawn does not reply, coming to a halt before an ornately carved wooden door. He produces a key as mysteriously as he had Arthur's bottle earlier and opens it, stepping aside to allow Sunday to enter first. There is a simple bed in the middle of the room, an otherwise empty mannequin wearing the helmet that matches Friday's Dawn's armour beside, a fully-stocked bookshelf and a table on either side of the door. The table is overflowing with brightly coloured items and further books.

"Arthur's crib is collapsible," Friday's Dawn says, quickly demonstrating for Sunday. "Here are the books I think are most practical. I've read all of them, but some seem more useless than others." He stuffs them into a bright turquoise bag, along with more bottles, several metal cans that he tells Sunday are powdered formula, a pacifier (only to be given to Arthur at night), a supply of diapers, baby wipes and some other things that he explains but Sunday doesn't really understand.

Arthur makes a noise, craning his head around to look at Friday's Dawn.

The Denizen immediately goes on alert, his gaze zeroing in on Arthur. "What is it," he says.

Arthur waves his left hand and kicks his feet against Sunday's suit.

"Oh, Elephant," Friday's Dawn says, stalking over to the crib. "Yes, we can't forget that, can we, Arthur?" he croons, waving a bright yellow elephant at the baby.

Sunday tries not to stare at the strange spectacle then gives it up as futile.

Arthur claps his hands together and grabs the elephant's trunk in one chubby fist.

"Make sure he doesn't drop Elephant," Friday's Dawn orders gravely. "You don't want to know what happens if Elephant gets lost."

Sunday blinks, surprised at Friday's Dawn's audacity. "I have said I will take care of him," he says stiffly.

"According to Noon, the elephant was given to him by his birth parents before he died. It and his name are all that he has of them," Friday's Dawn says, looking at the baby. Arthur's chewing on the end of Elephant's trunk now. "Of course, Noon could be lying, but I do not see why he would in this case."

"Certainly," Sunday says.

"It's time to feed Arthur again. Would you like to try while I watch, in case you have any questions, Lord Sunday?" Friday's Dawn asks.

Friday's Dawn proceeds to demonstrate how to mix the formula and check if it is the proper temperature, then hovers closer than is really warranted while Sunday holds the bottle to Arthur's mouth.

"Now you need to burp him," Friday's Dawn says, approaching with a blanket. It's a hideous shade of orange; it would not go with Sunday's fashionable green apparel at all. The turquoise diaper bag is already pushing it.

"I do not need the blanket," Sunday says irritably. This is taking altogether longer than he would have expected. "Just show me how to do it."

Friday's Dawn helps him position Arthur upon his shoulder and tells him to gently pat the baby's back.

"What is the purpose-"

Something wet drips down his back.

Friday's Dawn has the strangest expression on his face. "E-excuse me," he says, and flees the room.

Sunday can still hear his laughter, muffled though it may be by the thick wooden door. It is fortunate that he does not particularly care for the opinions of those below him, otherwise he might have found himself embarrassed. As it is, he cleans himself with the Seventh Key, wipes Arthur's mouth with the corner of Friday's Dawn's duvet (it is the only convenient material; the action is in no way spiteful) and then waits for the Time to return.

"That... should be everything," Friday's Dawn says, his gaze riveted on Arthur. "If you have any questions I will be glad to answer them. There is a phone in my room, and in various places throughout the Barracks. I see no reason why I would not be nearby, should you require me."

"Thank you," Sunday says stiffly, and takes his leave.


	2. Wednesday

It is surely ironic, Wednesday thinks, that her desire to consume should consume her so. Hunger pervades her thoughts; most times it is the only thing she can think of. She uses what powers remains at her disposal to prevent herself from growing any larger, and to bring sustenance to her path; applying it to anything else is... impossible. Unthinkable.

The only one who stands by her - flies alongside her a safe distance away, Wednesday amends with no small amount of bitterness - is her faithful Dawn. Perhaps Noon and Dusk would have as well, if she hadn't-

No; she will not think of that. She was betrayed, and her loyal Denizens paid the price. If only she could hold on to this anger, if only it could sustain her through her hunger. The hunger that she can no longer control, because Saturday stabbed her in the back, because she wished to find a Rightful Heir and fulfill the Will.

And now... now Dawn tells her that her traitorous fellows have decided to raise a Rightful Heir. It tastes bitter, this double betrayal.

"Arthur is arriving tomorrow, mistress," Dawn says. "He is so small. I can carry him out to see you."

 _Is that wise_ , Wednesday signals. She knows that even if Dawn, her most trusted servant, were in her path she would not be able to turn aside, unless there was more food to be had elsewhere in her immediate vicinity.

She might as well be a mindless beast, for all the control she has over... anything.

Dawn barely hesitates, but the pause is perceptible nonetheless. "You should see him, and he you, mistress. Your wishes are closer to realization than ever! Arthur will be grown in a few short years, and you can give the Third Key to him then."

 _This is true_ , Wednesday says. It will likely be the end of her, the release of her Trusteeship; but she does not tell Dawn this. Her constant hunger is like an ache in her gut that will not be assuaged no matter how she eats - but of late she has become aware of another, sharper pain. She has consumed Nothing as well - it is inevitable, with how the Border Sea increasingly impinges upon the Void. The Nothing, in turn, eats away at her innards. The only reason she yet lives, she suspects, is because she is devoting her power to maintaining her current form. Or perhaps because she has yet to give the Key up: it cannot be taken by force, nor from a corpse.

Either way, without the Key to sustain her, Wednesday will succumb to the Nothing and cease existing.

"I will bring him tomorrow, in the early evening," Dawn says. She looks so pleased. How can Wednesday tell her how this will inevitably end?

 _I will be in this area_ , Wednesday replies. _I will eat as much as possible in the meantime_. She does not bother specifying why; Dawn needs no clarification in any case.

"Thank you, mistress. I would check on the preparations for Arthur's arrival, by your leave."

 _Very good, Dawn_.

She watches Dawn fly away, until her Time disappears from even her enhanced sight. It is an indulgence, diverting some of her power to improve her eyesight. Her stomach twists in pain; hunger and Nothing. She turns, drawing on the Third Key to concentrate the fish in her path, and swims away.

* * *

Dawn hangs back further than usual, her arms wrapped around a small bundle: the baby Heir, Arthur.

"Arthur," Dawn says, croons really; Wednesday wonders whether he understands, "this is my mistress, the Duchess of the Border Sea: Lady Wednesday."

Arthur peers down at Wednesday; his eyes are a pale blue, and seem unnaturally large in his small face. He gurgles, shifting in Dawn's arms; a wide, toothless grin threatens to split his face.

Wednesday is quite certain that he does not understand the situation - who would be _happy_ to see her, to witness what she has become?

And yet. Arthur smiles down at her, and Wednesday feels something like hope.


	3. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using some (errr, a lot actually) of my own headcanon for Saturday's Times in this one.

The baby makes a disconsolate noise, the fifth it has uttered in the past fifteen minutes. Saturday grits her teeth together and sets her pen down.

It is lying in its crib, which Dusk had acquired for her the last Earth Saturday. It's... staring at her through the slats of one railed side; seeing her attention, it whimpers again.

It _should_ be glad that she has permitted it to stay in her office, the only fully enclosed area in the entire Upper House. Instead, it keeps making those aggravating noises and distracting her from her plans to expand the tower and exploit the Demesnes below her.

Saturday picks up her pen again, quickly writes out three brief missives, and sends them through the messenger tube sitting on her desk. Then she sits and waits, drumming her fingers against the surface of her desk. She resolutely ignores the baby's whimpers.

Dawn arrives first, followed shortly by Noon and then Dusk.

"Have you studied the materials Friday's Dawn provided?" Saturday demands without preamble when the three Times are before her.

"I have, mistress," Dusk agrees. Dawn sneers at the thought, and Noon shrugs.

"Very well. Dusk, you are charged with the maintenance of it when it is in the Upper House. I expect you two-" she looks significantly at Noon and Dawn, "-to read those books, in case you need to care for that thing in the future."

The three Denizens bow, then Dusk immediately makes for the baby. He picks it up carefully, and it presses close him.

"He is cold, mistress," Dusk says. "May I take him to my quarters-"

"Whatever you want," Saturday interrupts impatiently. "Within reason." She wants that noisy irritation gone. It had crossed her mind to accidentally lose it, but the retribution from the other Trustees would likely be too much trouble to deal with.

Dusk bows again, careful to keep the baby close, and takes his leave.

"Each of you will do a quarter of Dusk's tasks on Saturdays, to accommodate his new duty," she tells Dawn and Noon. The former smiles, while the latter looks disgruntled.

It is perhaps for the best that Dusk was the only one to learn how to care for the baby, Saturday reflects. While none of her Times are eminently suited to the task, Dawn and Noon are rather more ill-suited than Dusk in their own separate ways.

Her Dawn is rather new to his position, whereas Dusk and Noon have been her Times since her inception as the ruler of the Upper House. The Denizen formerly known as Pravuil was promoted because she approved of his cunning and ambition; but these are not traits she wants cultivated in the Trustees' pet Heir. Perhaps if she could mould the child herself, without the other Trustees' involvement but as it is... who knows what other nonsense the others would instill it with? No, better to hope that it will be raised naive and thus susceptible to manipulation.

Her Noon is also unsuited to the task. In truth, he ought to be her Dusk - as he was, before she switched them - and it shows. He is not as capable as the current Dusk, and struggles sometimes to complete the tasks she sets him to. Adding the job of caretaker would have been too much for him to handle on an ongoing basis.

Of course, she could have left Dusk as Noon and vice versa, but the current Dusk was too ambitious, too presumptuous. She needed to curb that ambition, bring him to heel. He was _her_ servant, and ultimately disposable - he needed to know that as well.

Satisfied with the outcome, alone in her office but for the steady, unrelenting patter of the rain against the glass, Saturday picks up her pen and resumes her plotting.


	4. Tuesday

Tuesday's time is valuable. Realistically, taking care of Arthur does not make sense. He dedicates an entire day, twenty-four hours, to minding the baby, and what does it earn him?

A sense of satisfaction, perhaps; but nothing tangible, nothing _material_. Arthur serves no purpose, at least not yet. He is too young to communicate; he cannot even move about on his own power.

Tuesday could dedicate his time to manufacturing the endless metalwork that Saturday requires for her ridiculous tower, or any other number of orders that the other Trustees send him.

But the fact that he can charge more for his time, and the sense of satisfaction that he gets from seeing Arthur among the treasures in his Pyramid make up for it.

Surely, Tuesday reflects as he shows Arthur the latest toy that he has made for the boy, none of the other Trustees have made such an elaborate and well-stocked nursery as he has.

Arthur burbles happily as he takes the plastic animal from Tuesday and proceeds to dash it against Elephant.

It is a bit irritating that Arthur seems to prefer the toy that he came to the House with: the things that Tuesday manufactures for him are vastly superior, after all. But Tuesday has found that Arthur seems attached to the things he first had - the relatively plain set of blocks and the floppy bear that emits a squeaky noise when squeezed that Thursday first made for him remain Arthur's favourites, no matter what new and increasingly elaborate toys Tuesday gives him on his weekly visits.

Does he find comfort in the familiar, Tuesday wonders.

He spends the entire twenty four hours at Arthur's side, but when the boy is settled for his naps or for the night, Tuesday sits in a comfortable chair beside his crib and fashions various small items from Nothing. Increasingly, he finds himself making toys during this time - and at least one of his Grotesques is out investigating new and exciting toys in the Secondary Realms for Arthur's entertainment these days.

Arthur whimpers, twitching slightly beneath the blanket. Tuesday has made him several blankets already, all with different designs, of course. The current one depicts a yellow elephant and various other improbably coloured jungle animals; he imagines that it must be Arthur's favourite.

"Shh," Tuesday says, setting aside the small firearm that Thursday had commissioned a few days ago. He smoothes a hand over the blond fuzz atop Arthur's head and nudges Elephant closer. Arthur pulls the toy against his side and gradually the baby's frown dissipates.

A telegram appears before him, fluttering at eyelevel before gravity begins to pull it downward. Tuesday frowns and snatches it out of the air; he squints in the half-light as he reads it. Arthur cannot sleep with the lights on fully, and it is a waste of fuel besides.

**NOTHING BREACH STOP LOWER NORTH-WEST DOWN TEN STOP REQUIRE IMMEDIATE ASSISSTANCE STOP TAN END**

Tuesday peers out the window; the alarms have not yet begun to sound, no distress rockets have been sent up. But he did order those to only be used in the most urgent of situations, particularly on Tuesdays.

Tuesday glances down at Arthur, who remains blissfully asleep. The alarms are loud, though the room is soundproofed; the rockets are bright enough that they would likely wake Arthur. The longer Tuesday tarries, the more likely it is that the alarm will go up.

He cannot allow anyone else into the Pyramid, much less the Tower itself. Not even his Grotesques - he knows that for all that they adore him they also loathe him in equal for the twisted caricatures that they have become. If he cannot even trust his most trusted servants, who remains to take care of Arthur?

He pulls out a blank telegram, quickly dashes off a reply to Tan - **COMING SOON STOP GRIM TUESDAY END** \- and hurries from Arthur's nursery.

"Captain, to me!" he shouts the moment the door closes behind him.

Tom Shelvocke, known as the Mariner, second son of the Architect and the Old One, is arguably the most valuable treasure in Grim Tuesday's possession. Certainly, the Captain was the most difficult to obtain.

His Immaterial boots ring against the metal rungs of the ladder before the Captain passes into view. He comes to a halt before Tuesday, a neutral expression on his face.

"Grim Tuesday."

"Captain. There is a mortal child beyond this door. I trust you have some experience with them," Tuesday says brusquely, ignoring the surprised look on the Captain's face. "I am needed in the Pit. You will watch this child while I am away; I do not anticipate being absent for more than an hour."

The Captain's eyes narrow. "I will do it if my debt will be forgiven," he says.

Tuesday stiffens, straightening to his full height. The Captain is only a few places below him in precedence - one of the first after the Trustees, actually - but it is enough to give Tuesday a few inches of height on him. "Half of it," he says.

The Captain's upper lip curls back. "That is the same as no change," he says coolly. "Considering my debt increases faster than I can pay it off, even if I work without pause."

Tuesday scowls. "I will erase half of your debt and increase your wage to the charge for your room and board," he snaps.

"Fine," the Captain says, and strides past him without another word.

Tuesday should punish him for that disrespect - but what can he do? The Captain's indenture is already eternal; laying further debt upon him would be futile. Putting those thoughts aside, he summons the emergency elevator.

"To North-West Down Ten," he says impatiently.

"At once, Grim Tuesday," the operator's disembodied voice says.

Tuesday sways, though he does not stagger, when the elevator judders into motion. It is not the smoothest ride, but the Far Reaches lies closer to Nothing than it ever has; the elevator shafts are unstable as a result. He will have to reinforce the elevator again.

He prepares a sunburst, cupping the gauntlets around it so none of its light escapes.

"North-West Down Ten," the operator says when the elevator lurches to a halt. The doors slide silently apart and Tuesday strides out without a word.

The sunburst flies from his hand, exploding when it hits the tunnel's roof without a sound. Tuesday is already looking for the source of leaking Nothing. It is not the worst breach that has ever occurred, and the Overseers and indentured workers are diligently fending off the Nithlings that emerge from the crack in the wall, but actually sealing the breach will require the Second Key.

"Report, Tan," Tuesday says, when the short, hunched Grotesque comes up beside him.

"Miners breached the Void approximately an hour ago, master. Immediate action was taken to stem the breach, but it soon became apparent that further assistance was needed. I arrived to see to it, but my sealing already fails. Twenty miners were obliterated when the Nothing first came from the breach."

Tuesday scowls. While the miners are not especially skilled, it is still irritating to hear that he has lost yet more of them. The only consolation is that replacements arrive at a greater rate from his fellow Trustees who lack the credit to pay for his goods. "Very well. Stand aside!" he calls, and his subordinates part before him, pressing against the walls or moving past him.

The gauntlets warm around his hands, as if in anticipation of their use. Tuesday raises his hands, palms out before him, and the Nithlings that remain are destroyed. How many times has he patched a breach into Nothing? He has lost count; he could do it in his sleep. It is a pity that only the Key has the power to do it, else he could leave the task to his Grotesques.

Envisioning the red brick and yellow mortar that makes up the buttresses of the Far Reaches is a simple matter; the gauntlets glow, humming faintly, and the stone of the mine combines with the leaking Nothing to form his wall when he touches the tips of his fingers to them.

"Thank you, master," Tan says, bowing, when Tuesday steps back from the newly-erected wall.

Tuesday scowls at him. "I am docking you a month's pay, Tan. That breach could have waited. You know I am busy on Tuesdays."

Tan does not raise his head. "Apologies, master."

Tuesday turns away and steps back into the elevator. The doors slide shut again behind him, shutting out the darkness and smog of the Pit and leaving him alone in the small, dimly lit room. Fixing the elevator comes as easily as reinforcing the Pit, and soon it is back to its usual state. "Arthur's nursery," he orders, once finished with the repairs.

The Captain is sitting in Tuesday's armchair, singing to Arthur, when the doors open. The light from the elevator is dim enough that it does not alert the Captain to Tuesday's presence, and the Trustee finds himself surprised at how pleasant the Captain's deep voice is. He would have expected musical talent from the Piper, certainly - but not his older brother.

Arthur gurgles, flapping his free hand at Tuesday; the other is, of course, holding Elephant. Tuesday is slightly mollified to see that the squeaky bear is on the Captain's lap, within Arthur's reach. There is a look on the Captain's face, the likes of which Tuesday has never seen, as he gently rocks Arthur.

"That is all, Captain," Tuesday says, taking Arthur from him.

The Captain's face closes off, that forced neutral expression returning. He stands, the bear tumbling to the floor with a single squeak. "Grim Tuesday. I'll return to my record-keeping." He gives Tuesday a stiff nod and lets himself out.


	5. Thursday

Thursday doesn't know what possessed him to go against Saturday - well, actually, he does: it was his temper, which always seems to be simmering just beneath the surface these days. He resents Saturday and her machinations, her petty interferences in the Great Maze. It is a Denizen's nature to obey, and this is doubly true for the Army Denizens - but that does not mean he has to like it. In fact, he finds Saturday's presumptions extremely distasteful.

She has not even deigned to issue his orders in person, not since she first came to give him Sunday's letter, which authorized her as the commander of the Army in the Architect's absence. Sunday is as much responsible for Saturday's actions as the Superior herself, Thursday thinks. His neglect, his decision to allow her to do as she wishes in her capacity as his deputy-

There is no discipline; laws that ought to be enforced are broken without consequence, issues are not resolved when they arise, and the House falls closer and closer to Nothing with every day that passes.

What can Thursday do to prevent it? His Demesne is the only one that really fulfills its function anymore, but the Great Maze is hardly an essential part of the House either. He cannot even put forth his own agenda, because his opinions are superseded by Saturday's.

Perhaps it was rash, supporting the decision to raise Arthur. At that point, Thursday had been angry enough to support any course of action that Saturday opposed.

Thursday looks down at the wailing baby - who had been sleeping peacefully under Dawn's watchful eye before Thursday entered the room - and thinks that he probably _did_ make a mistake.

"Stop crying," Thursday says, frowning. He doesn't know _why_ Arthur starts crying as soon as he enters the boy's vicinity, but he doesn't like it. At all.

Arthur whimpers and hugs his stuffed elephant closer.

"I'm not doing anything," Thursday says. He raises his hand, with the intention of rubbing Arthur's back - the baby seems to enjoy it when his Times do so - and Arthur shrieks particularly loudly.

"Sir, perhaps I should take him," Dawn says, stepping forward quickly to place herself between them.

Thursday narrows his eyes at her. "Do you really think that I would strike a _baby_?" he demands.

"I do not know what you are capable of, sir," Dawn says, which is as good as an affirmative.

Thursday stiffens, fury rising within him as the Will whispers about what a failure he is: even his Times, who ought to be loyal unto death turn against him.

"Very well," he snaps. "Keep it out of my sight! I will expect you and the other Marshals to take care of it while it stays in the Great Maze. I do not want to see or hear it when it is here!"

He stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind himself; Arthur's cries rise to a crescendo, the door doing little to muffle his sobs.

"Shut up," he snarls, causing the passing officers to look at him, then quickly away again. None of them point out that they had not been speaking; which is just as well, he would have demoted them to nothing if they had, he is so furious.

The Will hisses on uninterrupted in his mind, insidious.

* * *

Thursday comes to regret his rash words; sometimes he passes one of the Marshals caring for Arthur, and the boy's gurgling laughter makes him want to... observe, at least, even if he cannot take on an active role. But the moment he stops or so much as looks at Arthur, the boy starts wailing. And Thursday's anger rises because he has done _nothing_ to upset the child, nothing at all.

Dusk makes passing comments about Arthur's progress, which Thursday pretends to ignore. In reality he hangs on to every word, wishing that he could at least see Arthur for more than a few seconds before the baby dissolves into tears.

The other Trustees, frankly, are not to be trusted with influencing him. Who knows what sorts of ridiculous ideas they will fill his head with?

Perhaps, when Arthur is older, Thursday will be able to enter his presence without inspiring hysteria. Or at least, the boy will be able to communicate what, exactly, his problem with Thursday is.


	6. Monday

Monday sleeps.

Denizens do not dream, at all. There is no satisfaction to be gained from his constant sleep, except the relief from the lethargy that plagues him when he is awake.

He did not know that running the Lower House would be so much work. There are so many little things that go wrong, and the Denizens lack the initiative to put them to rights without his guidance. It is so very tedious, and dedicating his few waking hours to their inconsequential concerns is a vexing prospect.

His Noon used to tell him how many Denizens awaited his attention in the Atrium, whenever Monday woke up. Monday wakes so seldom now that Noon does not even bother anymore.

Monday does not mind; he prefers it this way. Knowing how many tiny, irritating things there were to deal with would only make him less inclined to do it, he imagines.

Monday sleeps, and he does not dream, and times passes.

* * *

Crying wakes him; great, screaming sobs the likes of which Monday has never heard. His limbs feel heavy, his mind slow and foggy. For many minutes he lies in bed, stares uncomprehending up at the ceiling. What is that racket? Why has Noon not dealt with it? Or if not Noon, his siblings? Sneezer?

Has everyone in the Lower House been stricken by those petty problems that even his most trusted servants do not fulfill their functions any longer?

Surely Noon would have woken him before this if that were the case.

Monday pushes aside the heavy coverlet; his hands tremble faintly. They are thinner than he remembers, skeletal; his whole body is diminished - not that he was ever muscular to begin with, not like Tuesday or Thursday.

His legs protest when he puts his slight weight on them, but he ignores it. How irritating that his own body is rebelling like this, attempting to burden him with such minor problems - as if to mirror the state of the Lower House. Loosely knotting the tie of his robe takes longer than it should.

Part of the steam baths have been partitioned off by a folding screen when he exits his bedchamber. Monday frowns faintly; he cannot recall authorizing such a thing, but neither had he forbidden it. The screaming is coming from there.

The steady heat of the baths eases the ache in his body as Monday makes his way to the corner. Neither his Times nor Sneezer appear to be in evidence; he wonders briefly what might have drawn his principle servants away, then dismisses the thought as inconsequential.

A small child is lying in a miniature, railed bed. Its face is red, eyes squeezed shut as it wails. Its tiny fists and feet are raised in the air as it flails about, the blanket half-hanging off one of the railed sides.

"Quiet," Monday says, scowling down at it.

The baby pauses briefly, blue eyes slitting open, before it resumes its irritating bawling.

Something hits his bare foot; Monday looks down, sees a garish yellow thing on the floor before him. He picks it up and the baby screams, hands reaching out towards him.

Monday steps closer, presses the yellow thing into its hands. The baby snatches it away with surprising strength and sticks one of the floppy protuberances - limbs, Monday realizes a moment later - into its mouth.

Monday stares at the baby for a second longer, then turns to walk back to his bedchamber.

The baby makes a sound, not quite a wail - more like the promise of one.

Monday turns back, eyes narrowed. The baby is staring up at him, gnawing absently on the stuffed animal's limb.

"What do you want," he demands, the words fading into a jaw-cracking yawn. He is so tired.

The baby keeps one hand fisted around the animal and reaches out to him with the other.

Monday frowns and puts the blanket in its hand. It tosses the blanket aside, keeps its hand raised expectantly. Monday gives it the blanket again. And again.

The fourth time, the baby latches onto his thumb with an unexpectedly strong grasp; after a couple of attempts to extract his finger, Monday gives up. It's too much effort.

"No screaming," he tells it, slipping his free hand behind the baby's back. "No crying. Do not wake me again."

The baby looks up at him quietly, its blue eyes seeming too large for its small face.

It occurs to Monday to wonder where the baby came from, and why it is in the Lower House of all places, once he has settled himself and the baby into his bed.

It does not matter, Monday decides, adjusting the baby so it is lying on the centre of his chest. He pulls the coverlet up so it covers everything but the baby's head, then settles his laced fingers atop the baby and its stuffed animal.

The baby lies quietly, one hand stubbornly curled around Monday's thumb, until Monday falls asleep.

* * *

"-should wake him," Dusk is saying, his naturally low voice pitched even quieter than usual. Not quiet enough, as far as Monday's concerned. Perhaps if he pretends to be asleep, Dusk will go away.

"He does not know about Arthur," Noon hisses back.

"Arthur is still missing," Dawn says. "With the First Key, perhaps our master could locate him."

All three of his Times are present? Monday would roll his eyes, if they were open. Of course they would show up now, when he has no need of them. Where were they when that baby was screaming its head off earlier?

The baby in question shifts on his chest, makes an inquiring sort of noise.

"Arthur!" Dusk says hoarsely; though his footsteps are muffled by the thick carpet, Monday hears him approach anyway.

"Dusk. Noon. Dawn. What are you doing," he says, opening his eyes.

Dusk halts, a guilty expression crossing his features; his hand is outstretched, clearly intent upon taking Arthur from Monday.

"Looking for Arthur, master," Noon says, approaching as well; Dawn is a step behind him. "The baby."

Monday shifts, so he is sitting against the headboard with Arthur cradled against his chest. "Yes. The baby. What is he doing here?"

"The Morrow Days have decided to raise a Rightful Heir," Noon says. "To spread the influence upon Arthur evenly, the Demesnes take care of him on rotation. He spends Monday in the Lower House, Tuesday in the Far Reaches, and so on."

"He was screaming and crying. He woke me."

Dusk winces. "I apologize, master. It was my duty to watch Arthur before, but an urgent matter arose that needed to be taken care of. Arthur was sleeping when I left him, though he does wake sometimes in the night."

Monday frowns. "It has been dealt with?"

"Yes, master."

"Fine. In future, he may sleep with me when he stays in the Lower House," Monday says. "I do not want to be woken by that wailing again."

"He does seem quiescent with you, master," Dawn agrees.

Monday yawns. "I assume he is to journey to the Far Reaches now. You may take him." He hands Arthur to Dusk, then rolls over and pointedly tugs the coverlet up to his chin.

"At once, master," Dusk says.

Monday doesn't bother replying; he has already closed his eyes, intent upon resuming his sleep.


	7. Friday

Friday sighs as the colour and passion fade from the world again, leaving behind a faded, muffled thing that she can barely stand.

That was the last batch of humans; it is only Tuesday on Earth - she will have to wait another three interminable days before she can venture back.

She would rather not associate her retreat with disappointingly mundane reality; she has not been to the Middle House in a while, so perhaps she will visit it instead.

"Noon. Dusk. We are returning to the House," Friday tells her waiting subordinates. She turns away from the listless mass of humans.

Her two oldest and most trusted executives bow, and fall into step behind her.

* * *

Friday's new Dawn is quite different from his predecessor. He disapproves of the practice of experiencing, and hides his disdain for his counterparts and their superior behind a thin veneer of brusque civility. At times, he is outright disrespectful; but Friday does not particularly care what he thinks, and the Middle House functions in her absence when she leaves him in charge, so she allows him to keep his position.

Usually, he is waiting to greet her and make passive aggressive remarks about the state of the Middle House; what does it _matter_ if the moon stays up constantly or the seasonal cycle is stuck on winter? Denizens can see fine in the dark and the cold is not unbearable.

Today, however, Dawn is nowhere in evidence when comes through the Front Door into the Middle House; one of his Gilded Youths is present instead. They all look roughly the same, the only variation being in height. Dawn manages to tell them apart but Friday has no idea which one is standing before her.

"Greetings Lady Friday," the Youth says in a crackly voice. She thinks it might be masculine. "Friday's Dawn audience request Gilded Barracks."

Noon stiffens at the presumption. "Dawn can-" he starts angrily.

Friday lays a hand on his arm. While it _is_ presumptuous, it's not like she has anything better to do. "Very well, we'll come now."

The elevator ride to the Barracks is exceedingly tedious. The soft music issuing from unseen speakers seems shallow and trite - but everything does when she is not experiencing.

Three more Earth days, she tells herself, glancing at her watch. It is spelled to display the time and date on Earth. Only a day now; she is glad for the tendency of time to move fluidly between the House and the Secondary Realms.

Noon glares at the Gilded Youth, who seems oblivious to his disapproval.

"What is this meeting about?" Dusk asks the Youth.

"Rightful Heir Lord Arthur Friday's Dusk."

Friday frowns. A Rightful Heir? Surely Dawn would have sent some word if such a mortal had appeared in the House. She listens with half an ear as Dusk and Noon interrogate the Youth - a futile effort, given the limited communication skills of the Youths.

Finally, they arrive. The Youth shows them to a drawing room and takes his leave.

"Da," an unfamiliar voice says, from near the back of the room.

"Da _wn_. Dawn," Dawn says, dragging the syllable of his title out exaggeratedly.

"Da," the speaker repeats. "Da!"

"What is the meaning of this?" Noon demands, stalking into the room before Friday.

Dawn barely looks up from whatever it is that diverts his attention. "Shh," he says absently.

Noon's eyes narrow dangerously.

"This is Arthur," Dawn adds, holding a tiny mortal up for them to see.

"Da!" says Arthur, waving a chubby hand at them.

"Who is that?" Friday asks blankly.

Over the baby's head, Dawn frowns at her in obvious disappointment. It's not really a change from his default expression around her, so she isn't overly concerned. "You don't remember baby you mistakenly kidnapped alongside all those old mortals?" Dawn asks.

Friday looks at Noon.

"One Arthur Penhaligon somehow ended up with the weekly supply of elderly humans a few months ago," Noon confirms. His eyes flick back to the baby. "I did not know it was a Rightful Heir."

" _He_ is being raised by the Trustees," Dawn says. "It was decided upon at the last meeting of the Morrow Days."

"Why?" Friday asks, bewildered. "What possible function could raising a Rightful Heir serve?"

Dawn sniffs and puts the squirming Arthur back down on the couch. "Perhaps he will manage the Demesnes with greater alacrity than some."

The baby grabs the stuffed yellow elephant at his side and sticks its trunk in his mouth.

"How old is he?" Friday asks, ignoring the slight.

"Nearly a year," Dawn says, pulling the trunk out of Arthur's mouth. "No, Arthur. You will ruin Elephant's trunk."

The baby grunts and tries to pull it back, apparently unconcerned.

"There has not been a mortal in the House in a long time," Friday murmurs, walking closer. "I wonder-"

"Arthur is not to be experience!" Dawn says, drawing the baby into his lap. Arthur takes the opportunity to chew on the elephant's trunk again, looking up at Friday's curiously.

"He would not even notice the absence of one brief memory..." Friday says.

"No," Dawn says. "Any changes to Arthur's circumstances are to be discussed and voted upon by the Trustees. And I doubt a single memory would be enough to sate your addiction."

"Watch your tone," Noon snaps.

Arthur makes a noise, muffled though it is by the toy.

"Keep your voice down," Dawn replies, unperturbed. "Arthur dislikes yelling and other loud noises.

"I wonder why you are caring for the child," Dusk says, his tone deceptively mild. "Or how the Trustees got wind of this Heir in the first place. You are not a Trustee."

"Lady Friday authorized me to attend the meeting in her place," Dawn says; were he anyone else, he would be smug.

She does remember signing some order to that effect the last time Dawn ambushed her when she came to the Middle House.

"Well," Friday says, checking her watch: it is nearly Friday on Earth now, it seems she can leave this dreary place now, "I am sure you will raise him to your own standards of proper; and as long as you carry out your current duties-"

"-and Dusk's, and Noon's," Dawn mutters, but she chooses to ignore that.

"-then I see no reason why you cannot continue to do so," she concludes. "Now, I must be going, but I'm glad we had this talk," she adds, smiling.

Dawn grimaces at her, an attempt at a smile that falls rather short. "Likewise, my lady." His voice fairly drips sarcasm.

"Da!" Arthur says, temporarily taking the trunk out of his mouth to utter this word of wisdom.


End file.
